A Lack of Imagination
by Noel.Guscott
Summary: <html><head></head>Who knew that returning home was going to be nearly as hard as his exile? Garak has no room for an imagination. A Garak centred fiction, K  for now. Please review! Also looking for a Beta Reader, so message me.</html>
1. Chapter 1

"_The truth is usually just an excuse for lack of imagination_." – Garak

This short story takes place a short time after the finale of Star Trek: DS9. Garak contemplates his past as he begins to decide what path he will take for the future of his people. Please, I not only love, but NEED the criticism so fire away.

Star Trek is owned by Paramount, and was created by Gene Roddenberry. None of the characters, settings, or ideas of Star Trek is mine, and never will be. I'm just a loyal fan.

**2375, Deep Space Nine**

It seemed so long ago that he had first stepped into this small, ugly retail space located on the promenade of Terok Nor. He had never wanted to come here at all, but as he had told Ziyal what seemed like a lifetime ago, who would've ever suspected him hiding out in one of their most hated enemies strongholds? His training and intuition had served him well, and for years he had went nearly unnoticed as the lonesome Cardassian tailor. There were always suspicions, but no one with evidence. He just allowed the imaginations of the bored, naïve, and stubborn to flourish as he allowed himself to perform in his own theatre, creating a life he never wanted and a meagre living he despised only within himself.

He walked over to one of his shop displays and took the fabric of the dress into his hand. His connection with such a materialistic item was much more intense than he had ever imagined it could've been – he felt connected to every stitch, every weave, and every change of the fabric. It truly was a thing of beauty. Mila had always said he could be anything he wanted before he joined the Obsidian Order. Of course, he had never imagined himself becoming a tailor on Terok Nor in order to save his life. He imagined himself using whatever talents he discovered to further his own advancements. He had done that many times under Tain's watchful eye, most notably on Romulus. There were days when he sometimes missed those gardens and the hours he put into tending them. But most importantly, he would always remember why he made himself such a successful gardener. It was a shame he never took it up again.

No, it wasn't a shame. Plants were too menial a task for a man with a bubbling imagination, and a set of skills few rarely possessed. And just as he was drawn to gardening, so too was he drawn to cutting cloth and creating beauty in the fullest; he remembered speaking with Julian long ago about the simplicity of it all, which was true. But yet, as he looked upon it now, how could something once considered so simple create something so – well, he wasn't going to use his own opinion on the subject of aesthetic beauty in the case of style, but from what he had heard it seemed nice.

He let the delicate dress go and began to wander aimlessly around the shop. He took in the different colours and variations, the multitude of designs and fits that he had created for every race, every gender or, in rare cases, the genderless. Since he had first took up the profession his skills had grown exponentially, and he didn't feel wrong or pretentious for admitting that to himself. In fact, he knew he was good and on many an occasion he never failed to show it.

"I do wish that there was a way to imagine this predicament, Elim," he spoke to himself in a low, almost chit-chat like voice as he continued to admire his creations. "You paid your dues. The Finance Ministry is inviting you home –" He paused for a moment, remembering what state Cardassia was left in since the end of the War before asking himself, "Is it home anymore?"

It was uncharacteristic of Garak to be solemn as he was now, but then again it was also uncharacteristic of the Cardassian Empire to be left in ruins after a devastating galactic war. Almost nothing had prepared him to face the reality. He had been trained in the Obsidian Order, the best of the best in galactic espionage, to represent what he considered to be the greatest Empire and the greatest race in the galaxy, his own proud people: the Cardassians and their glorious Empire. But that _was _the reality and the situation he was faced with, and the only thing his training could do was keep him focused, cold, and calculated.

Garak wasn't faced with the simplicity of the bolts of fabric beneath his fingers any longer. He didn't have to hold the veil above his true self anymore. The Obsidian Order was broken, and most of his enemies were dead because of the War. All that stood between him and the next step was the daunting task of determining what the next step was going to be. He had no idea how he could integrate himself into Cardassian society ever again after being exiled.

What was he saying? He _was _a Cardassian. Integration would be the simplest part of the web. How could he help rebuild? What use was a tailor and a spy in a broken Empire that needed heroes budding with honesty and passion, or a strong leader with a new direction for Cardassia. All Garak had ever known was the Order, spinning the webs of lies to protect himself, of being distant from everyone, even his own people, for the security of his beloved Empire. How could a lonesome tailor with a shady past help rebuild the shattered Empire that had once been an object of galactic wonder.

"Elim, instead of spinning a web of your own fabrications, you have created an impossibly large web of truth – breaking your own rules," he said to himself, almost finding comfort in the lack of silence he created in talking to himself. It distracted his mind from the facts ahead.

There had been a time when he found the task of assassinating Proconsul Merrok daunting, or the time when he helped Sisko fabricate evidence that helped his plot to assassinate Senator Vreenak that forced the Romulans into the Dominion War – but now he found himself deciding upon his own fate, which would have direct impacts on the course and stability of Cardassia itself. With Damar out of the way, Cardassia was left without a leader. What would – no, what _could _Elim Garak the tailor do about that?

"Garak?"

The familiar, soft voice of a man as close as any had come to Garak permeated the air and shattered Garak's reverie. He didn't turn to face Julian Bashir standing in the entrance of his shop, instead acting as if he was taking a keen interest in one of the last sweaters he had ever made.

"Come in, Doctor. What can I do for you today?"

Bashir didn't immediately answer Garak. Garak heard his soft footsteps enter further into the shop and then flank to his left. Judging by Julian's pace, he might have seen Garak speaking to himself and wanted to a chance to 'be there', as human's called it, for a friend. _How thoughtful_.

"I just thought I should let you know – well, I am letting you know now – your transport leaves in half an hour."

"How very thoughtful of you, Doctor, though I would venture to guess that isn't the only thing you have to stutter to me," Garak said with one of his cunning smiles, turning to face Julian with a look that could fool anyone into making one believe Garak already knew what you were about to say.

Bashir looked at the floor for a moment, staring at his feet as if he was preparing to say something, or, perhaps, keeping himself from doing so.

"Well – no," he began slowly, looking up and running a hand through his flowing brown hair. "I just wanted to come say good bye and good luck. You're going home."

"At least to what's left of it, Doctor."

Bashir let out a breath, almost as if he knew a comment such as that was coming. How could he not? His own home, Earth, had been threatened during the War. Luckily it hadn't come to such an abrupt end as Cardassia's.

"However, I have finally managed to pay my debt to the Finance Ministry," Garak drove on, turning to face Julian fully. "It seems that this outcast spy is going home after all."

"You and your lies – for some reason, I've come to respect it over the seven years I've known you. But here's some food for thought. You once said to me, 'Truth is in the eye of the beholder, Doctor'. The truth is, Garak, you're as honest as the next man – cunning, but honest. The lies are _you_, your true self. But alas, these are just the musings of a young man –"

"Genetically altered, of course."

"Of course."

Nothing else needed to be said. Julian had come to say what he wanted to say, and Garak had nothing else left but to leave it all behind and go. He heard Julian's footsteps slowly begin to fade away, but then Garak realized he had one thing left to say.

"Doctor!" He heard the footsteps stop near the entrance, and he sighed with relief that he caught the man. "Whatever happens to me, I suggest you keep to your word and _never _invite me for dinner."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Garak. I may have you over for the simple fact of necessity – who knows what I might force you to eat for the sake of galactic security."

"Using my own, past lies against me. Doctor, you have truly been taught well."

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I had a good teacher."

Garak nodded. If he were any other person, any other soul, he would say more. But that wasn't who Elim Garak was. He was distant, rigid, and determined. The words _friend _seemed to hang on his lips as Bashir eventually left the shop, but Garak couldn't force himself to it. That wasn't who Elim Garak was, and nor would it ever be so.

"To Cardassia, then. As the human Shakespeare loved to write so much, 'Adieu!'"


	2. Chapter 2

"_Of all the stories you told me, which ones were true and which ones weren't_?"

"_My dear Doctor, they're all true._"

"_Even the lies?_"

"Especially _the lies._"

Garak and Bashir, "_The Wire_"

This story was written as Garak is arriving to Cardassia in his transport. As you can see, there is some connection to my previous Chapter. However this could also be taken as its own, stand-alone piece. I do not own any of the characters nor do I own Star Trek Deep Space Nine. Paramount/CBS, all yours! Oh, and criticism is always appreciated.

**Cardassian Transport, 2375**

Even now, he still couldn't stand Cardassian transport ships. They were over-crowded monstrosities that could barely be classified as transports simply because of the fact their cargo was people rather than goods and services. Though the transport was long, the interior was narrow, with two rows with three seats per aisle, with only a narrow pathway between the rows and limited luggage space above the seats. It reminded Garak almost of an extra long Earth school bus he had seen when Julian had gone through his phase of Pre-Nuclear Earth history.

Though manageable, the space itself was doing terrible things for Garak's state of mind. Though he had wrestled with his claustrophobia for many years, it still nagged him. He was surrounded by his own kind, which for starters helped; but the lack of free or personal space was nagging the back of Garak's mind more than loose threads on a new dress. There had only been one point where he thought the world was collapsing in on him, and that was when both of the seats to his right and left had filled up. Luckily the two had started conversation, which distracted Garak's mind and eased the pain significantly. However, Garak couldn't help but notice that if he did want to stretch out his legs, he would have to get up – if he could that was.

The whole trip had taken three days at maximum warp, and the entire convoy of transports that Garak was a part of were escorted by Federation starships that were also going to provide aid to Cardassia Prime and its once mighty Empire. That had been the first piece of conversation that had stuck out to Garak, other than the thrill he had of talking to his own people once again.

"I feel like I'm being watched, even if the Federation doesn't have anyone on this transport," the woman to his left quipped, almost as if to herself but clearly expecting a response.

Garak stayed silent, allowing the man on his right to reply, "I know what you mean. The Federation can give us aid, but I don't see why the Provisional Government agreed to allow Federation ships to _escort _our transports."

"My opinion of the Federation aside, they are giving us aid," said the woman again. "I would never have expected the Federation to help us after what we did."

"Have you ever heard of Root-Beer?" Garak asked reminiscently, thinking about his discussions with Quark after re-taking Deep Space Nine from the Dominion.

"I'm sorry?" the man to his right asked. He could see the woman to his left looking quizzically at him.

"It's an old human beverage. It's disgustingly sweet and carbonated – my colleague once used the term 'bubbly' to describe it. It also makes the beverage insidious, almost toxic."

"No offence, citizen, but you don't make any sense –"

"Don't you see? It's exactly like the Federation." Garak turned to look at the man, giving him his traditional, piercing look of knowing. "The Federation is the same way – bubbly, carefree, almost too sweet to fathom; and it's insidious."

Silence met Garak for a moment as he allowed his fellow Cardassians to digest what he had just said. It was one of the only truly philosophical things Garak had ever heard Quark say, and this was the second time that Quark's perspective of the Federation had truly hit home with Garak, and now Garak's new acquaintances. The Federation was this vast alliance of systems, all united under the ideals of self-preservation and improvement; the Federation had no worries, being able to provide for hundreds of billions of lives across their space. They were even providing for their former enemies, the Cardassian Union. And yet, like anyone else they wanted something from it. Peace, territory, resources, research – Garak couldn't say for certain, but Quark was also right when he said, "No one does anything for free."

Though it had been an odd greeting, Garak had begun to get to know his fellow Cardassians. To his right sat Yemor, a native of the Chin'Toka system that was returning to Cardassia to become a member of the Provisional Government representing his home system. He was a handsome and rather young man, though Garak immediately noticed that he carried a heavy burden on his conscious – perhaps murder, or a death in the family. It was severe, whatever it was. To his left sat Rotana, the wife of a farmer who had already arrived on Cardassia to help with the agricultural re-building efforts on Cardassia. Garak learned quickly she was trained as a lawyer, but she had grown up as a farmer on a distant Cardassian planet. She was returning to her original trade with her husband to help her capital rebuild.

"So, Abran, what do you do?" Yemor asked curiously.

Just because Garak had his exile lifted did not mean he wasn't going to be careful. He had fashioned a new name for himself among his fellow citizens. To his new acquaintances he was Abran Tamor, taking parts of Tain and Ghemor's name to form a new identity. For nearly an hour they discussed matters of galatic politics, the restoration of Cardassia, their pasts and their futures, and almost no detail was left out. Of course, Garak had fabricated almost every piece of his 'past' to avoid any possibility of being recognized by anyone on the ship, including these two.

"I'm just a simple tailor, young Yemor. You never know when you can use a good tailor."

"An interesting answer from a rather complex man," Rotana quipped.

"Indeed. I've never once heard a tailor be so knowledgeable of pre-warp Human culture or of Cardassian politics," Yemor added in agreement.

"You would be surprised what you can discover when you're repairing a torn shirt," Garak replied to them both, with a grin that spoke a thousand words more than what he said ever could.

It seemed they had been satisfied with the mysterious Abran Tamor, because for the rest of the day they didn't bring up the subject again. The next day, however, was a much different story.

The two blasted him with questions, trying to coax out who Abran Tamor really was. They never suspected that Abran wasn't his name, but they wanted to know who he was beneath the skin. But Garak, knowing how to play the game all too well, decided to have a little of what he considered to be recreational fun, playing one of the greatest mind games since his stay on Deep Space Nine.

Garak recalled one moment in particular, with Rotana saying, "But you just said you had spent time on Romulus –"

"And that I did, my dear. Surely you don't find probing a simple tailor –"

"You said you were a gardener, Abran," Yemor said cutting Garak off.

"And I was, young Yemor. I was a gardener at the Cardassian Embassy on Romulus. Surely you can understand that man like myself can do more than just hem women's dresses using his hands."

"Abran, we're going to figure you out one day."

"And when that day comes, my dear, I will be a new man entirely. I am just plain, simple Abran."

"Well plain, simple Abran, the least I can do is trust you – we're all Cardassian here."

The break in conversation, that one line that Yemor had said reverberated through Garak and occupied his thoughts for the rest of his stay aboard the transport; it brought him back to past days when Julian Bashir was still trying to discover who Garak really was. It was almost as if his relationship with Bashir was repeating itself in these people. Garak's lifestyle of lying wasn't a lie at all, but really it was who he was as an individual. The lies were the truth, as he always liked to explain. But until now he had never really believed it. He had always believed the lies were used like a shield against things he would rather keep safe. But after so many years, so many close encounters, so many friends made, the lies were truly becoming the heart of his being. The lies were the truth, they were _Garak_ and it was in his nature to do so. But he never forgot who he truly was. And Julian had taught him that.

During the remainder of the journey, Yemor and Rotana had given up trying to discover who Abran was and had accepted him as the odd man out, as human's put it. He clearly wasn't a simple tailor, but he was great with conversation so they allowed him the illusion of acceptance. It was all they could do to distract themselves from their upcoming challenges and their impending distraught.

Their capital lay in ruins, and no one forgot that for a moment. The Dominion had killed millions of innocent and harmless Cardassian people and had left a battered and broken Cardassian Union to clean up the mess. Anarchy raged across Cardassia where a dishevelled Provisional Government couldn't maintain order, especially in the other continents on Cardassia Prime. And even then, though the Provisional Government was made up of members of the former Detapa Council, it in itself was a useless bureaucracy that had no business being on Cardassia. What it needed was a leader, not leaders. It needed one leader to pave the way for Cardassian re-building, with the Cardassian people ready and willing to re-create their entire way of life.

But even so, it was hard to accept the fact that millions of people were dead. Artists, politicians, athletes, soldiers, local heroes, mothers, fathers, children – all dead, and nearly none buried. How could anyone rebuild after that?

"…and my husband will be ready to meet me at the checkpoint," Rotana finished explaining to Yemor and Garak as the ship finally exited warp at the end of the second day. She had explained how her husband was ferrying them back to their recently cleared plot of land, though Garak had been focused inward.

"I'll be headed straight for the Capital. I'm going to be pushing for a bill that will finally pass the full support of the cleaning of Cardassia Prime's atmosphere. It should make your job atmosphere if we manage to clear all the toxins and debris still in the air," Yemor explained to Rotana. "And what of you, Abran?"

"And what of me, young Yemor? I will survive, and I will serve. Whatever I can do I will do for Cardassia."

"I have the feeling that is the first truly honest thing you have said this entire journey, Abran," Rotana said with a pleasant though knowing smile directed toward Garak.

"My dear, I just hope the farm life will not dull you valuable talent for intuition."

"When will you ever hear a tailor say that again?" Yemor asked, though there wasn't a chance for an answer.

"Would Elim Garak please report to the arrival bay?"

"Wait, Garak – I know that name. He was one of the members of the Cardassian resistance who assaulted the compound with Legate Damar! He must've been able to redeem his exile after that."

"Well I wouldn't know, though I do have to meet him," Garak said, getting out of his seat and grabbing his luggage. "Yemor, if you'll excuse me…"

"But Abran, it said Garak, not you!" Rotana pointed out.

"As long as you keep quiet, here's why I'm leaving." Yemor and Rotana leaned in close, and Garak began to say, "I'm actually a member of the new Provisional Government. I'm supposed to be meeting with Garak to offer him a position of great importance."

"But what position? I would have surely heard of this," Yemor said as Garak finally made it out into the aisle.

"Don't shoot the messenger, young Yemor. But I must bid you two farewell! I wish you all the best."

Through his lies, he just discovered what he was going to do with his life. Cardassia didn't need a tailor, they needed a voice. Though Garak worked best by himself, he was always a clever and manipulative man. He would help create Cardassia's voice.


	3. Chapter 3

"So they exiled you?" 

"That's right! And left me to live out my days with nothing to look forward to but having lunch with you."

Garak and Bashir, _The Wire_

Who knew that Garak might actually miss those lunches more than he could ever imagine. Oh, and Star Trek isn't mine, Garak isn't mine, yada yada. I just love fan fiction. And please, REVIEW! =)

**2375, Cardassia Prime**

"I'm glad I found you, Elim. There's a lot of work to be done."

The man sitting across from Elim Garak was one he had not expected to see even before leaving the Cardassian transport that had brought him home. He sat eating his meal in one of the last standing Cardassian Central Command buildings in the capital in a room which was formerly an officer's mess. In keeping with true Cardassian culture, the Legate's had an area above the rest of the main floor with a long and ornate wooden banquet table for their own uses. This was the very table that Garak occupied with an old acquaintance, Gul Madred.

"What kind of work do you have in mind for a man who was formerly exiled, Madred?" Garak asked as he slowly worked his way into the satisfactory serving of Sem'hal stew.

"Your exile's over. That's common knowledge."

And so it was truly real. Garak had never expected his involvement in the uprising against the Dominion would have been able to gain as much respect for him among the surviving upper echelon that he would once again be free to return home, but it seems he was wrong. He truly was home, and he was allowed to be here once more.

Madred took a moment to wipe his own mouth of the stew. Then he set his napkin down beside his half emptied bowl and took another pause to look at Garak with a fierce expression upon his face.

"This provisional government that's been created, this democratic representation of the free Cardassian people – it doesn't have a true base of power to stand on. We can do one of many things, of course. We could support them, try to tie what's left of Central Command to their authority, or we can bring them down any number of ways and assert a more centralized from of autocratic control. But I'm no politician, Mister Garak," Madred finished, sitting back in his ornately decorated chair and folding his hands patiently under his chin, waiting for Garak to speak.

Garak took a moment to collect his thoughts, gazing about the rest of the massive room as he did so. Almost nothing was ordinary about the mess inside the former Communications Headquarters for the Cardassian Central Command other than the unusually ornate area the Legate's had formerly had all to themselves. Cardassians prided themselves on simplistic beauty rather than unnecessary complexity, though in this case it also made the chair much more comfortable. If only these chairs were as comfortable as everyone could be on Cardassia.

"And I always thought being a tailor was tough business. Politics makes my wares seem unimaginably simple!"

"Don't play coy with me, Elim. We may not know each other well, but I know who you are and –"

"And I know who you are, Madred. You've come a long way from the scrounging orphan you once were in Lakat. You're a Gul in the Cardassian military with considerable political influence, and a father to a beautiful girl – Jil Orra, if my memory is still correct." Garak smiled maliciously at Madred as he said this, prompting Madred to sit back for a moment in shock.

"What's your point, Garak?" Madred spat.

"I would _hate_ to see anything happen to Gul Madred or his lovely daughter during this time of turmoil on Cardassia, of course. If ever she needs a dress, however, by all means come to me. I hate to sound boastful, but I am a good tailor."

Silence overcame the two for a moment. Neither had one this engagement of wit, but neither had lost, either. Garak had the upper hand for now with his veiled threats, but Gul Madred had the true muscle behind his words. The two were powerful men in their own right, and if they could set their differences aside they might be able to help Cardassia into a new age of peace.

"But times are tough, that is for certain," Garak said slowly, standing up as he spoke so he could begin to pace behind his chair. "Crime is at an all time high, clean up crews are barely scratching the surface, the atmosphere is polluted because of the Dominion bombardment and the food supply is in peril. Put this situation together with a temporary Cardassian government that has a bureaucracy five hundred times too big for it and the lack of a voice, and I can truly say we have a severe problem."

"They need a voice, Elim. Most of the bureaucracy that survived the attack are trying to live in the past, clinging to power or other influences that mean nothing anymore. They're being clouded from what their true goals should be: the reparation of the State," Madred replied calmly. He seemed to have dropped their previous engagement.

"But the question remains, Madred. How can we convince this government that they aren't working? A military coup would completely destroy what little influence it still has by seeming to turn their backs against the people for its own pursuit of power, and a political coup would completely undermine any further action we would wish to take." Garak paused behind his own chair and looked into Madred's eyes, carefully searching for a sign that Madred knew he was right. "After three years of Dominion rule, I think our only option is by investing ourselves in the established government. We need to work from within to create order and stability."

"And I thought the Obsidian Order answered to no one."

"The Obsidian Order is still broken. But if it existed, we wouldn't be having this conversation, the Dominion wouldn't have been here, and there would be no need for two men of war to be discussing what Cardassia's next political decisions should be." Garak sighed slowly as he lowered himself back into his seat, appearing exhausted and a little distraught at the mention of the former Obsidian Order.

After a moment of silence, Garak's mind clicked and his eyes widened. He said, "On the way here I met a young though charismatic man named Yemor. A handsome fellow, and a native of the Chin'Toka system – he might be able to help us, Madred."

"And how do you propose he can do this?"

"He's a politician! Politicians are meant to be bent and broken for the good of the State; if we can bring him to our side, then maybe we can get things done."

"Indeed. There has been too much internal squalor for the provisional government to get anything done. It needs a leader, and maybe this man could be our leader."

"It'll be just like old times, Madred." Madred nodded in agreement for a moment before Garak continued, "Members of the military and secret services pulling the strings behind the throne. Aah, I really am home!"

"But we can not forget that nothing is as simple as it seems, Elim. I once thought that torturing a Starfleet captain would be a complex though attainable business, but I was proven wrong. Now we're dealing with our own, power hungry people. They're twice as dangerous as any human ever could be, and just as cunning as the rest of us. We need to be firm in our resolve," Madred finished saying, pounding his own fist against the table.

"The weave we're creating is as complex as any piece I have undertaken during my time as a tailor, Madred. The design is starting to come together, but we're missing one thread: you, Madred. You need to take more power within the Cardassian military. Central Command needs a new face if it will ever be trusted again. Who better than Gul Madred, a survivor of no less than twenty-five engagements with Federation and Dominion forces, including helping to turn back Dominion forces with the Federation during the Battle for Cardassia. I will admit, Legate Madred does have a nice ring to it."

Silence once again overcame the two plotting men, each staring into the distance as they began to truly contemplate what it was they were about to do. They were planning to influence the current Cardassian government behind the scenes not for their own purposes per say, but for the good of the entire State as a whole. Nothing was being done, so they would make the first move.

"Madred, do you still have contacts on Cardassia that could assist in any way?"

"Possibly. There's no telling who survived the attack. It's been a month or so now. And yourself?"

Garak shook his head. "Most of my former contacts were killed before or during the Dominion attack. The rest are useless – they're off-world."

"So we have to work from the ground up. Meet me back here in three days, Garak. Find Yemor."

And so it had begun. Cardassia needed a voice, and Garak was going to give it to them. But where would Yemor be?


	4. Chapter 4

"_A bite on the hand is certainly worth saving a boy's life, wouldn't you say_?"

"_I suppose it depends on whose hand - just joking, Doctor_."

Garak and Bashir, "_Cardassians_"

**Cardassia Prime, 2375**

It had been nearly twelve hours since Garak had met with Madred, and he had been busy. Though Garak may not have had any former contacts left on Cardassia Prime, he had a great deal many people who were indebted to him, or better, who still feared him. Garak's return meant he could call in favours he had never thought possible during his exile, and it also meant he could wield the considerable influence he had garnered before his exile under the Obsidian Order again. Garak might have only been one man, but his former status as the protégé of Enabran Tain and one of the most dangerous men of the Obsidian Order still carried considerable weight in the minds of the Cardassian elite. Garak knew more things and had more information about current leaders than anyone could wish to fathom, and more importantly, much more than anyone knew what to do with.

But his adventures since the eventful meeting with Madred had not been without cause. Garak needed to find a way to get to Yemor and to get Yemor considerable power, and he had a plan. A former Gul with the Central Command turned Legate Trepar was Chair of the Government. In essence, he had considerable weight over what was deliberated upon and the outcome of key current events in Cardassian daily life. Garak had called in a considerable amount of debts to attain a meeting with Trepar, but it had been done all the same. And faster than Garak had ever hoped! It seemed the Son of Tain was still feared by the Cardassian elite, Garak thought with a smug smile on his face.

No sooner had he found himself drifting through the rubble of the capital's back streets than he had come to the West Wing of the former Cardassian Headquarters during the war. Garak personally hadn't traveled through the West Wing, though since his return he had heard stories of the heroic sacrifices certain citizens had made to attack Dominion and Breen forces while Garak and his company had assaulted the main complex. He only wished more had lived.

He stepped up to the door and waited. No sooner had he taken a position in front of the door when a scanner did a once over of his person. Not finding anything of value or harm the scanner shut off and a communications channel opened.

"State your case, citizen."

"I have an appointment with Legate Trepar in oh, say, three minutes? It should be under Abran Temor. He requested a new suit be done up for him at the legislature."

"Your business here is irrelevant. I'll check our files." The channel flicked off for a moment as the glorified soldier-turned secretary no-doubt checked the Legate's appointment list. Garak heard the familiar communications channel click back on and the man replied, "I have you here. You are free to enter."

"Thank you."

No sooner had the talking ended then the door had rapidly opened. Garak stepped through the threshold and into the corridor ahead. Just as quickly as the large blast-door had opened, it sealed itself shut once more. Garak could hear some clicks behind him as he began his trek down the long, seemingly empty corridor letting him know that there was no way out. Not that it mattered, he wasn't here to do anything dangerous or illegal.

Literally nothing was in the long, straight corridor. The walls wear a traditional Cardassian rustic brown, though there were no designs. Garak suspected the alloy made to create the facility as a duranium-tritanium mix, but he couldn't be certain. That's just what he would do.

No sooner had he entered the corridor then he had crossed forty paces to the identical door at the end of it. To his right at waist level was located a buzzer, and Garak pressed it. Within moments the doors opened.

"Aah, the Son of Tain home at last!" Trepar exclaimed, short arms the size of tree trunks spread wide. "I've heard a great deal about you since you've come home."

Garak wasn't surprised in the slightest that Trepar knew who he was. He was a powerful man after all, and with no Obsidian Order around to keep him in check he had his own ways to gather information.

"Surely that's only an exaggeration, Legate Trepar. I've been hemming pants, not gallivanting around the galaxy," Garak replied with a seemingly pleasant grin and a slight nod of his head.

Trepar chuckled and let his arms hang loose. "Don't play coy with me, Mister Garak. It doesn't matter if your Tain's golden boy or a tailor on Terok Nor hemming Bajoran pants. You're always up to something."

"My dear Legate, you're too kind! I was beginning to worry my actions really had gone unnoticed by Central Command."

"Nothing gets past the eyes of Central Co –" Trepar paused, a sinister smile gracing his lips. He had caught himself from using the Central Command as a term for the Cardassian government. It wasn't considered politically correct anymore, and if he had said that it could have had dire consequences for his self-image. "Nothing gets past the Cardassian Government."

Trepar gestured to the seat in front of his desk. His desk was a simple thing, made of dark duranium and not bearing an ornate designs or aesthetic value. It was a simple rectangular object which served some sort of purpose to Trepar. Unlike many of his colleagues Trepar was a soldier. It was evident from the lack of completed deskwork that lay upon his desk, multiple padds strewn from one end to the other in no particular order. His chair was no different, an uncomfortable looking piece of duranium alloy which had the sole purpose of being a chair. Trepar had never been a man of public subtleties or a keen eye for artistic fashion. He was a traditional Cardassian, and a soldier no less. He had a soldier's organization and a soldier's heart, but he was no fool. His boisterous attitude may hold the hearts and minds of the people, but his almost anal control over Cardassian affairs had the work of a cunning and accomplished tactician written all over it.

Nothing was said as Garak settled into his identical seat. They simply held each other's gaze, neither looking away from the other for some sort of innate feeling that their look was a contest, a game as it were. Finally Trepar relaxed, allowing his eyes to glance over to his half-finished glass of kanar which sat near the left-hand edge of the table. It must have been a local Cardassian brand, bearing the traditional brown colour of the expensive and aged vintage usually only found in establishments in the capital.

Trepar took a sip of the kanar and seemed to savour it for a moment, whirling the glass lightly in his left hand as he swished the harsh liquid around in his mouth. He swallowed, and Garak almost thought he saw a smile as the substance most likely burnt his throat like an enraged wildfire.

"So, Garak, why are you here?"

"I thought I would take advantage of the fact that my exile was over to visit some – old friends," Garak replied, crossing his legs and re-settling himself in a more comfortable position. Or as comfortable as he could make himself in the rock of a chair he had been provided.

"Friends, you say?" Trepar grunted slightly, most likely amused with the statement. He took another sip of kanar, taking the time to think about his next question.

"I know you didn't come home to hem pants. Business isn't ripe, and we both know that isn't where your expertise lie. So tell me, Garak, what the hell are you doing in my office?" Trepar held Garak's gaze once more now with a rather intense glare bearing down on Garak. "I have five different things I could be doing, and I can just as easily make you disappear. Get to the point."

Garak couldn't take the discomfort any longer. To relieve himself he slowly stood up, positioning himself behind the chair and leaning slightly on it. Though Trepar was a powerful man, this game was as much in Garak's arena as it was in Trepar's. This was what he had been bred for.

"I couldn't help but notice this 'Provisional Government' –" Garak said that with hand quotations, " – of yours isn't really performing with the grace a symphony such as it should. You have a bureaucracy three times too large to efficiently operate, and a First Consul with almost no experience. I just want to know why you're making things so difficult for Cardassia in a time where Cardassia does not have the luxury to lose time?"

Silence answered Garak at first, but he was patient. Whether the politician was a soldier or a doctor, they all turned out the same. It was almost as if the profession, if it could be called that, turned everyone into the same types of people. Trepar had to weigh the scales, count his losses, and create a new position with every word he said. He had to try and guess what Garak knew and what he didn't, and more importantly what he could say next that could be of any use to his own advantage, whatever that could be. But that was the very purpose of Garak's visit: what was his purpose?

"The First Consul was elected by a committee made up of rebellion leaders, loyal Central Command officials, and former members of the Detapa Council that had managed to evade capture during the war. It isn't my jurisdiction to see –"

"Now who is playing coy, Legate Trepar?"

"Watch your tongue, Garak," Trepar spat, his voice reminiscent of a loud and rumbling volcano.

"I can't help but remember the olden days, as it were," Garak spoke again, breaking the silence as he usually did. "You were always so ambitious, even for a soldier – what would you have done if you had another chance to get back at Dukat?"

"Do not mention that snake's name here. He is an insult to everything the Cardassian Empire stood for. But let's stop skating around the surface – I know how you operate, Garak."

"And I know you can't operate without me." Garak stepped forward toward his desk as he continued to say, "Who was it that black-mailed Dukat's second-in-command so you were next in line for the position of Head of the Fourth Order? Who was it that kept Legate Ghemor from discovering your involvement in the McAllister Nebula Failure?"

"What is your bloody point, Garak?" Trepar rumbled, standing up and leaning on his desk with both arms wide, staring into the taller Garak's face and his almost beaming eyes.

"My point, my dear Legate Trepar, is that I have a lot I can offer you. You will wear the finest Cardassian garb in the entire Provisional Government, and you'll be known as one of the best dressed soldiers there is." Garak smiled, seemingly satisfied with what he had said as he returned to his seat.

"You speak in riddles, Son of Tain!" Trepar barked, slamming his right fist down on his desk, causing a few padds in one of his stacks to fall to the ground with a loud clang. "But after dealing with you so often I understand you perfectly." Taking a breath and calming his nerves, Trepar returned to his own chair and folded his hands on his desk, seemingly deep in thought as he held Garak's gaze. Then he spoke up, saying, "Once again you have managed to spin the truth into lies, lies into truth, and you have made the difference between what is and what could be so slim that I cannot see my own future clearly. I have need of an advisor of your caliber, Garak, though I do not consider you my friend by any means."

"Quite the contrary, Legate Trepar – never consider your business partner a friend, unless you want your business partner to stab you in the back –" the last phrase made Trepar's eyes widen in shock, and Garak laughed insidiously, trying to sound innocent as he said, " – I didn't mean that literally, of course."

Trepar nodded, though his air was much more cautious now than it had been when Garak first arrived, which itself was a feat to behold. Rather than being in likeness to the readiness of a wolf before the hunt, he had the dangerous grace of trained Cardassian killer about him. Even Garak considered his own people more dangerous than those human wolves he so often studied.

"Well, it has certainly been a pleasure, Legate Trepar, though I best be on my way."

"What else could you possibly have to do than blackmail a member of the Provisional Government?"

Garak thought for a moment as he turned to leave, and then replied with a grin that Trepar couldn't quite see, "I think I may try my hand at gardening again. It has been too long since I took up the craft, and the capital could definitely do with some more life in it."


	5. Chapter 5

Hey everyone! To those of you still reading this story, thank you SO MUCH for your patience. University makes writing a true hell to attempt. But since my summer months have begun, I have been itching to get back at it. This is the first of at least four instalments I plan for this on-going project this summer. Also, if you want to review, beta-read, or just send me a message, please do! I love criticism, feedback, and support. Anyway, onto the FAN-FICTION, since I own none of these people or places, and Paramount does. - "_All you really need to know right now is that the return of Hogue and Rekelen is in the best interest of the Cardassian Empire_.**"**

"_Or at least in the best interest of the Cardassian military_."

"_Is there a difference_?"

Garak and Sisko, "_Profit and Loss_"

Cardassia Prime, 2375

It was amazing what a people could do if they brought themselves together for a mutual cause. The rest of Cardassia still lay in ruins or worse, but a haven of peace can even be found in a whirlpool of insistent chaos. A garden, planted by local residents within the capital and government officials alike, encircled the building that housed the Cardassian Provisional Government.

The building wasn't much to look at; standard Cardassian architecture with three spires atop a rather square building, with only small windows dotting each of its six floors to denote office space, and a large viewscreen for pubic viewing situated above its large duranium doors. But if one could get past the military precision which the building's architecture bares, a beautiful garden graced one's eyes. To either side of the main entrance, and the most elaborate displays of Cardassian floristry were present: the symbol of the Cardassian Union skilfully arrayed in a vast sea of intense colour, both mirroring the other, symbolizing the endurance and soon-to-be vibrant return of a shattered empire. Around the building had been planted an array of flora, from trees to shrubberies, flowers local and alien alike; and through this display of fascinating nature, paths laid out in simple stone seemed to wind their way around in an intricate dance, eventually making their way all the way around the building and forming into the main square in front of the government buildings. Benches lay within the gardens, for all citizens who would wish to take advantage of the view.

This creation was a very uncommon display of Cardassian appreciation of the nature around them. A people so used to exploiting their surroundings for the good of the state rather than appreciating and valuing their natural companion on Cardassia, the end of the war had re-awakened an appreciation of things once considered to be small or taken for granted.

Natima Lang, upon her swift return to Cardassia following the end of the Dominion War had overseen the project. It had cost little, but had achieved success beyond what she had hoped. Cardassian citizens from across the battered planet had come together to build and maintain a legacy of things they had lost touch of, a very monument of nature that acted as a reminder to what people should really value. Even now, Natima sat outside within the gardens on the western side of the building, going over a padd with a small glass of kanar as she took a break from a long day inside the government chambers. It was her usual spot; the bench closest to the small side entrance located on the western side of the building that led directly back into the government chambers.

But Natima was only a politician and an intellectual, not a spy like Garak. He had tracked her down within a day of speaking with Legate Trepar, his new though rather volatile associate. But Garak had figured, since Natima's hands had been all over the creation of the well-maintained masterpiece knew he would locate her there. It had taken yet another day to discover her habits and schedule: where she would eat, take her breaks, travel within the government chambers. It was elementary, not even a challenge of Garak's skills in reconnaissance. But it was necessary, for Natima Lang could be a powerful ally. Beyond her being a potential ally, she did owe Garak a favour for saving her life.

But Garak had waited long enough. Cardassia did not have the luxury of time for Garak to coddle in the flowerbeds and to trim the hedges. Though he had enjoyed his work as a gardener both on Romulus and for a brief period as a fake gardener in his own home, it was a rather tedious activity that distracted him from the task at hand.

"Professor Lang, looking as fashionable as ever – or should I call you Representative Lang?" Garak spoke in a booming tone from his position, nearly fifteen feet away from the former professor. But he had spoken loud enough to garner her attention, surprising her to such a degree that some of her padds had fallen to the ground with a loud crash.

"I never thought I would hear that voice on Cardassia, Mister Garak," Natima replied, composing herself as she stood to face Garak. "But the reports of your – terrorist acts, if I'm not mistaken – must have been true?"

"You would be quite mistaken to think of them as acts of terrorism. More rather, I was a loyal Cardassian involved in a dissident movement to usurp power from our Dominion occupiers."

Natima laughed, a genuine act that lasted brief moments but spoke a thousand more words to Garak. "It seems that we've both become rather radical since you last saved my life and the life of my students. For that I can never truly repay you."

"Aah, you bring up quite an interesting conundrum, Miss Lang. I learned from Quark that everyone has their price, and I do believe I have _quite _an interesting offer to make you."

The mention of the Ferengi bartender made Natima seem taken aback, almost as if she was remembering a time before the conflict had begun, and the blush dotting her cheeks indicated her feelings had still been true to Quark even to this day. It was something Garak would never quite understand, even with his interest in the beauty of the galaxy. Ferengi had always puzzled him.

"You're as methodical as when I last met you, weighing the scales every moment you think. But I hope that this offer has something to do with our political situation rather than old allegiances to the former military command," Natima said, taking a seat once more on the bench and inviting Garak to join her, who sat to her left side.

"My practice of politics is probably not up to the standard of a serving member of the Provisional Government, but please bear with me as this plain, simple tailor tries to explain this complex offer." Garak paused to note the expression of disdain present on Natima's face. She knew that he wasn't any simple tailor, but even with her political sway and access into Cardassian archives, no one knew everything about Garak except Garak himself, and the long dead Enabran Tain. "I have heard, through former clients and past associates, that our Provisional Government is rather – how should I put it? Slow, would be the simplest term, I suppose. Cardassia, it seems, may need a new face to guide it through this tumultuous period in its history. The state could use a leader to look to."

"Our government is still heavily in the control of former military commanders and associates, and those few who don't wish it to be so are under the careful watch of the last members of the Obsidian Order who had managed to survive the war. We have some young up-and-coming representatives within our ranks, but their power is quelled by those with the real sway; what do you have in mind?" Natima asked, her interest clearly peeked at this point, her body slowly leaning toward Garak in an unconscious effort to concentrate.

"The Cardassian state is suffering, and we need to repair the well-oiled machine it could be. Perhaps you know of someone within your ranks, someone young and preferably progressive?" Garak asked, attempting to lead Natima to the same conclusion he had when he had met young Yemor on board the transport ship. Garak hoped his prediction had not been wrong.

"A few come to mind. Hogue and Rekelen, of course, though they would lack the charisma necessary; they are best suited to leading within the government rather than abroad. Some of the representatives from the outlying systems also tend to fit what you ask; Yemor of Chin'Toka is a clear speaker, logical; the other is Moerab of Septimus, a centrist figure, but just as young and passionate. Quark would laugh right now, I sound like such a politician."

Garak smiled, a genuine expression even if his eyes were fixated on the former Professor turned political figurehead in front of him. "Indeed, Quark may find that you have changed your career some what. But on the topic of this Yemor, as you so call him; does he seem to be what you're looking for?"

"He's young, and a man who has seen too much to be the age he is. But it drives him to fight for what matters, the entirety of the state rather than his own interests. Moerab, on the other hand, has ties to Legate Trepar, the current Chair of the Government. His loyalties are more clouded." Natima paused, trying to lock eyes with Garak, almost as if trying to read through his mind to figure out what exactly Garak had in motion. "For a simple tailor, your interest in internal politics is remarkable."

"We Cardassians pride ourselves in placing the state above all else but our families, Miss Lang. Whether one is a tailor, a gardener, a soldier, or otherwise doesn't change that." Garak stood up and turned to face Natima, then continued, "It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Miss Lang. I look forward to more of our encounters when they are not down the nozzle of a phaser." Garak bowed his head and turned to leave.

"Mister Garak!" Natima called back as he began to walk away. "You never presented me with your offer, did you?"

Garak turned to face Natima with a grin on his face, a grin that only his closest friends would realize that it meant he was one step ahead of the game. "I suppose not, Miss Lang. But I assure you _we will _meet again. Good day, citizen."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"You'd be surprised how detrimental a poor choice of fashion can be. Take this dress: it may be all the rage now, but in a very short time it can become tiresome, an affront to the eyes. Certain people might even think it's objectionable. And then [tears the dress]… nothing but rags." – Garak to Quark, "_Profit and Loss_".

**Cardassia Prime, 2375**

The word pandemonium would be a humble description of the carnage occurring around Garak. He had been walking down what was once a side-street in the Old Capital minding his own business for once in his life. Well in truth he was never minding his own business, for his mind was racing with the thoughts of a man consistently planning ahead for every contingency. There was the chance that Legate Trepar already had assassins after him – in fact, it was almost certainly a reality when on Cardassia even after this bloody, costly war. He had made plans to disappear, to escape, but no plan had prepared him for what was to transpire next.

Museums in the Old Capital were the main attraction before most of it was brought to its knees in a torrent of molten fire that erupted from the dangerous space above. The Dominion had specifically targeted cultural and population epicentres attempting to wipe out not only what was left of the Cardassian people, but the very idea and pinnacle of Cardassian pride and legacy. In true Cardassian fashion, museums were dedicated to the history of the rise of the contemporary Cardassian people and their mighty empire. Garak had been walking near one of the recent additions in late Cardassian history, chronicling the victories of the great and mighty Cardassian people against their Federation enemies during the Cardassian War. At one time, it had been a sight to behold, a true monument in Cardassian fashion attesting to the unbreakable cohesion of its people. Of course, Garak knew the hard truth from his time in the Obsidian Order.

All the sudden within what seemed to be a split second, the world changed. A sudden burst of brilliant bright light followed with Garak being thrown in the air, hitting the ground with a hard thump. His ears were ringing and his body inflamed with pain in the brief aftermath. But the split second had passed and instinct and training took over. His life mattered too much, and he was willing to do anything to make sure it lasted longer than the next few seconds. He got up and quickly found cover amidst the cloud of dust and ash that had risen from the explosion. Where once a door to a beautiful museum had stood as the last solid piece of a formerly magnificent masterpiece of cultural preservation was now a pile of rubble and smoke. A pile of rubble that was keeping him alive, since the person or people who had caused the explosion had failed to account for all possible directions in which the debris could fall. Garak was lucky that his would-be attacker was as dull as a Klingon barkeep in intermediate explosive combat, for it was at that moment that phaser fire erupted from multiple angles, hitting the ground where Garak had been moments earlier.

"I have never made such a stir in my entire life on Cardassia that was so public," Garak scoffed to himself, moving to the edge of his cover to take up a better position on his would-be assailants. Moments later, however, Garak was smiling to himself. It was how he handled his fear on the battlefield. _I have never felt like I mattered more in my life – a true, out-in-the-open attack on my life! The pot has truly been stirred, then. Good_.

Weapons fire had ceased, at least for the moment. The ground where Garak had been was littered with ditches and black ash where the phaser fire had struck. Perhaps they had finally realized – they being four, maybe five individual attackers armed with medium range, hand-held phasers – that Garak was one step ahead. Though Garak hoped that they thought he had been vapourized in the initial onslaught, his hopes were most likely short-lived. The organization with which the attack had begun and the access needed to the necessary explosives to bring down a reinforced museum doorway was only in the hands of seasoned members of the Cardassian military or former military members. Garak discounted the idea of mercenaries or guns for hire – Cardassia Prime might have been in shambles, but only Cardassians had the right to kill other Cardassians. They were family, all of them, though a rather dysfunctional one to Federation standards.

_Fifty, perhaps sixty paces_, Garak processed, taking a few moments and looking at a more fortified position near the remains of a security and coat check office. All Cardassian structures were built with a sense of purpose, or in blatant terms, war. The security office had been in a position where only the shrapnel and blast impact of the bomb were liable to cause any damage. However, like most Cardassian security buildings, it was reinforced with light duranium alloy plating. It would be an easy dash to get behind that kind of cover, and he could consolidate his position there and try to form an escape –

"No. Ha! Oh, no," Garak spoke to himself, laughing almost manically at his foresight. The dash over the unturned rubble was exactly where his assailants would hit him. It was a mostly open stretch over overturned rubble that left Garak exposed. He turned again, looking for an alternative. He found one in the form he did not expect.

It turned out to be a day of split seconds as phaser fire erupted once more. Streaking hot beams seemingly flew through the air and impacted the location of where Garak had thought the enemy had been. Within moments, fire was being exchanged both ways and the entire situation had gone loud. Men and women on one side, nearest Garak had taken up positions on the street and on the third floor of the building parallel to his position. He spotted eight, perhaps ten Cardassians on his side, or at least a third party who hadn't necessarily noticed him. His would-be demise was cut short as he noticed an increased amount of movement. _They're running. A very _wise _decision_, thought Garak. It was exactly what he would have done, and what he had been trying to do in his unarmed circumstances.

"Elim Garak!" called a familiar voice. "Garak, there's no use in hiding. We know you're here, and you know that you're safe."

"A coincidence in finding me so soon! I don't trust coincidences, Madred," Garak called, not taking any chances and remaining in a low position behind the rubble and out of sight of who may or may not be Madred.

"Stop playing games, Mister Garak. We met just a few days ago, if that satisfies your mistrust of this unfortunate situation," Madred called. He was one of the men on the third floor. _Terrible position – I could have shot him by now_.

Garak sighed. He had to make a choice. He could either trust that the man calling out to him was Madred and not another assassin with a vocal modification device that wanted to take Garak out, alive or very much dead. But he had gone to the man personally seeking an amicable agreement between them. Against Garak's better judgement, he stood up slowly. He put his hands in the air instinctively, knowing that Madred's men could possibly mistake him for someone else under such a tense situation.

"There are always games, Madred," Garak called as he began walking toward Madred, who by this point had made it to the ground floor and was making way to meet Garak near a group of rather burly Cardassian men armed with phaser rifles and scanning the horizon in search of further encounters.

"I am curious as to how you located me with such prudent speed and accuracy?"

"Has being home already gone to your head, Garak? Oh, I expected so much –" he paused, grinning at Garak in a rather condescending way. "You may be in favour once more, Garak, but I still have friends. But you…" Madred turned face and began walking the direction he had come, Garak hot on his heels.

"This attack isn't over, Garak. We don't know who's behind it, but we know for sure those whom cornered you will be back. My guess is that Legate Trepar is behind this recent folly to destabilize our beloved capital, but I cannot be certain," Madred began to remark, handing Garak a hand-held phaser as they climbed the stairs to Madred's third floor hideaway. "Do you have any thoughts, tailor?"

"Perhaps just Garak may do," Garak began, speaking absent-mindedly as he began to collect his thoughts. Moments passed in silence, broken only by a Cardassian soldier shuffling his feet or the familiar clicking sounds of a Cardassian checking on his weapon. Finally, he began once more, "I would like to believe it was Trepar's work behind this attack, but I feel as if we've only began to expose the mere first pieces of a much larger puzzle. What would he have to gain? Sure, we threatened each other, but if I may be so bold, my special – skill set – is much too valuable an asset at the moment. Perhaps I could be clouded by my own high esteem, but I suspect I still have more digging to –"

A blast of phaser fire sent shrapnel flying. Madred had hit the deck and Garak had taken cover under a windowsill. Weaponry began blasting around them, heavy fire being exchanged from a position twenty metres further away and off to the left from the original target area. Garak took a risk to peak up and get his bearings. He saw a group of two Cardassians about a seventy metres away who had taken up position in a fourth floor balcony. They were wearing civilian clothing but armed with powerful Cardassian made phaser rifles. Garak lowered himself again and motioned to Madred to get his attention. Luckily, Madred was facing Garak and asked for more information.

"There's two about seventy metres away, fourth floor balcony to the right!"

Madred must have brought a seasoned bunch, for the soldier closest to Garak began to lay down a suppressing phaser fire on that position. Continuous short bursts of heavy fire forced the two to retreat deeper into the building, allowing Garak a chance to sprint toward and slide in beside Madred.

"Such violence, Madred! I should just drop the phaser now and pick up the sewing machine once more."

"I thought you said –" Madred stopped, standing to fire four rapid bursts before hitting the deck once again. "I thought you said it was just Garak, now, and not the tailor?"

Garak stood himself, taking aim at one of the two who had fired at him before. The man was distracted, trying to force Madred's forces on the side streets to retreat back into the building, forcing the battle into a distanced building-to-building engagement with little chance of either side advancing without immense risk. Garak fired his phaser, hitting the man square in the chest and watching his body fall limp from the impact.

Garak couldn't help but to feel an immense sense of remorse as he took cover once more. Most likely the second attacker had taken the body back behind cover to retrieve the fallen man's equipment. He thought he had finished killing his own brethren, his own brothers during the Dominion War. He had dreamed of a new Cardassia that had a chance to move on without the need for violence. But defeat after defeat turns a people reliant on progress through victory, a people who valued family above all else into a people willing to backstab their own brothers to birth Cardassia anew.

The skirmish had not ended yet. Garak had hoped the opposing side or Madred himself would have retreated to regroup and set up a new defensive position, but no. The pride and betrayal was thick in the air, almost as if the smoke itself bore images of Cardassia burning under Dominion rule. This firefight had become a battle to the last, a violent encounter fuelled by the vision of a Cardassia since past, and a Cardassia yet to recover.

Two of Madred's men had fallen, one on the street and the one who had provided suppressing fire moments earlier. Garak estimated that Madred had wounded or killed at least four of their enemy, though the firefight still raged like a powerful typhoon. Garak and company could barely see through the cloud of debris that had been churned up from the multiple phaser impacts. Each of them took their phaser and fired in the general direction which they themselves had almost been hit mere moments earlier, hoping that they would hit something.

"We need to move!" Madred called to the group in the third floor. "Garak, take two of my men up to the roof and set up a firing position. Those of us down here, short bursts! We do _not _want them to know we're taking the upper ground until it's too late. Go!"

Without a third thought, the second being Garak caring for his own life and the first being pure instinct, Garak moved. He knew that the two were behind him as he began to climb the stairs nearby. Without a look and by listening to the footsteps, Garak could tell one was an older Cardassian man, well trained and cautious, though of a slender build. The other was a woman, soft yet careful in her step, most likely a combatant with less than a year of war experience under her belt based on her effort to make sure kept herself cool and controlled. _If I'm wrong I lost my touch_.

Garak preferred the detailed fine art of tailoring to the bloody, brutal business of battle, but sometimes he couldn't help but to become embroiled in the centre of a bloodbath. And the continuation of this ridiculous waste of life required him to take up a position holding the higher ground, firing down at vulnerable enemy positions. As he suspected, the roof was a haven for just this kind of work. The trio took positions on the left side of the building on their stomachs in a prone position, using cracks in the stonework as a place to fire their weapons from concealment. And more importantly, it allowed them to observe the onslaught from above, rather than level with the assailants.

"Let's focus our fire to the left. Madred seems to have held those nearest him at bay. If we can give a chance for those on the ground to advance, we might be able to flush them out, or better, make them retreat before this slaughter continues any further," Garak explained. "I have better things to be doing then shooting our brothers and sisters. Fire!"

Without a second thought the three unleashed a barrage of molten white hot bars of death that rained down on two enemy defensive positions on the ground floor of a museum opposite Garak's original position. Immediately they saw the gruesome results of Madred's quick thinking. Garak noticed that the two he was with managed to bring about two more casualties in quick succession. A third ran to check the bodies, and Garak himself touched the trigger, taking having hit the woman through the stomach and causing her to drop immediately, limp and unmoving. As quickly as it had begun, Garak heard voices in the distance ordering a full retreat. Madred's forces on the ground wasted no time in moving out of position to begin a relentless pursuit of those who had killed their own brethren.

Garak sat back on the rough floor of the roof and looked up at the sky. Though he knew he only had moments before he had to confer with Madred, he couldn't help but let a single, solitary tear flow down the left side of his face. He had killed two more Cardassians today. Two parents, two siblings, two individual people with families and friends who would miss them dearly; was this what was to come for Cardassia? Was a time of infighting and blame, of insecurity and inability to progress toward the future to come? Garak didn't speculate further, though he knew it would take more than just a good tailor to mend this situation. It would take his entire repertoire of skill and deceit to, ironically, make Cardassia the world it could be once more.


End file.
